The Heretic II: Double Heresy
by TobyWong
Summary: This's been sleeping on my HD for more than six months now. I'm still uncertain as to where to take the story but I know this quasi-teaser stays as it is. More to come when exam & work load decrease and some ideas kick in.
1. I

**I – Heresy.**

_Rome, 55 AC_

Decimus Corintus wiped the sweat off his forehead as he tried to command himself to slow down. For a brief period of time that seemed eternal, he had been battling against this powerful immortal, and he needed to regain his ground.

For this immortal was very skilled. His blade slashed the air with deadly precision and he feinted the attacks with elegant cunning. Decimus brushed his eyes to wipe off the sweat that clouded his sight, and beheld his opponent.

He was not remarkable. A thin man with a simple face that had a slightly big nose as its most noticeable feature. But the eyes... the eyes gave away glimmers of the true nature of this immortal. Decimus had noticed and feared as never before.

His heed shifted to the other immortal, the one that was going to fight him in the first place, but upon the insistence of the other, had retreated, and now stood in silence, calmly watching the battle unfold, leaning against a barrel.

Decimus did not know these men but he knew their presence had to be related to that afternoon some years ago, when Pompeii had been buried by the lava of the Vesubius. When he had forsaken the rule immortals must abide by: never kill on holy ground.

The immortal came forward again. Decimus held his breath as he opposed his blade. Both blades collided, but the stranger suddenly ducked, dragging his weapon with him, having Decimus' entire stomach at his disposition.

Decimus tried to chop down at his head, knowing that his life depended on that blow. But so did the other, who swiftly plunged his blade in Decimus' belly. Decimus spat blood as he felt his legs failing him.

The other stood up as the vanquished man fell on a side, against the dirt and mud of a Roman alley. The stranger removed the blade. Decimus Corintus choked in his blood, as he knew that this immortal, whoever he was, would not spare his life. Or would he?

For he saw hesitance in the man's face. A doubt that could be deadly for him, as certainty could be for Decimus. He heard the other man barking angrily at him. The victor glanced at his partner for a second, a gaze of shock. Then he lifted his shiny weapon and struck at Decimus' neck...

--

_Paris, France._

_Present Day._

Dusk was falling as Methos kneeled beside the grave. Another anniversary of Alexa's death. The last woman he had loved, the last woman who had given a meaning to his life.

He caught his breath and dared gawk further. Here they were coming. There were three of them. He wiped the sweat off his eyes as he examined the field. One of the men, who held an old Luger in his right hand, was looking for him from a grave to his right, far from his position. The other, from whose neck hung a machinegun, was approaching, not yet dangerously. The third man, the leader, stood silently by Alexa's grave, stroking a Glock.

Methos recognised him, and guessed that the Watchers had learnt more than the mere fact that Adam Pierson. the historian in charge of the Methos Chronicles, was in truth Methos himself. He should have known the second a bullet flew past his ear and nestled in the grass by Alexa's grave.

He carefully rose and rushed behind a large tombstone with an angel's shape. He glanced at his chasers. The one that had been approaching was closer, while the Luger guy had drawn nearer. Suddenly, he felt his shoulder on fire as he heard a distant blast. The leader had spotted him and fired his Glock at him.

Methos crouched as the man who was closer reached him, the machinegun in hand and ready. The immortal kicked at the ankle and made the mortal trip. Enduring the pain from the wound, Methos yanked him from the hair before punching him into unconsciousness.

The one with the Luger was coming closer know. Methos reached the machinegun and aimed not at the man, but at the floor beside him. He fired and the rattling made his shoulder burn. The aggressor ran on his steps and hid behind a tombstone.

The wound did not hurt now. Methos stood up and started a run across an aisle of large tombstones. He heard the shots hitting at his sides, but luckily never him. The Luger man suddenly appeared from nowhere, the weapon aimed at him. Methos shot first, targetting perfectly his bullet at the Watcher's kneecap. He knocked the man down before he could squawk in pain.

Now only one remained. He hid behind a grave and tried to look for him. He knew this man. He had helped him, in what had probably been a point of no return for him. For Methos had cursed himself by aiding that man and his friend.

His friend... Clarice Minon, the Heretic. The one he should have beheaded. The one he had spared. The one he had tried to forget. And surely the one for whom this Watcher wanted to kill him.

He rose slowly and felt a tiny breeze against his face. Suddenly, pain struck him in the chest. He recognised the cold burn of steel running through him, a lethal kiss that had its beginning on his chest, between his right shoulder and the nipple, and its ending on his back, about a little lower than the entrance wound.

Instinct and rage took over. Having spotted a shape, he aimed the machinegun and felt his body rattling as the firearm spat bullets. He struggled to keep balance as he felt the wound healing. He had hit.

Methos approached the aggressor. His heart pounded faster the closer he got. He coldly eyed his doing. A bloody mess that once had been a face, now shattered by two bullets. He closed his eyes and sighed. He knew what he had done. He had broken the rule. The only true rule that immortals had to abide by.

Holy Ground. Killing on sacred land ensued pain for an immortal. The Hunter and the Executioner would track him or her down and terminate such immortal. But now the Hunter and the Executioner were only one. Himself.

He choked, feeling his lungs closing, and fell on his knees. He began to curse in an ancient language, a language he had no knowledge of. He shivered, as his boiling blood melted his veins. An ominous swearing directed to himself, stemming from himself, but of someone else's voice.

Moonlight shone down on him. Then a bolt of lightning struck him...

--

The dawn woke him up. He rose restlessly and started to pant west, outside the cemetery, towards his residence. The memories of the night pounded in his brain. He had feared many things, but never something as terrible. Now there was only one thing left to do: find the Heretic. Before it was too late.


	2. Chapter 2

_(It's been a long since I last wrote anything on this. Will try to see if I can retake the path I had set forth for the story when I started writing it... or maybe it'll go elsewhere...)_

**II – Another Heretic.**

"Help! Help!"

Diana Springer turned into a corner and ran panickedly across the deserted dark street. She could hear the footsteps behind her. Uneven yet rageful. Tears streaked down her cheeks helplessly.

She didn't understand. But again, most of the life she remembered was like it. Not much of a lifetime though. According to the police, she had been found unconscious in an alley two months ago. She had been found by a beggar who was decent enough to phone off the police, but not decent enough to spare the naked, fainted attractive woman his manhood. She didn't remember the rape though. Or the alley. Or anything prior. She was amnesiac.

She glimpsed back. The man was still after her, and in his hand he could see the sword, with its tiny shiny blade practically screaming for her blood.

She tripped but didn't fall. She regained ground and kept on running. The church was up ahead. The freak might chill out there. She reached the door and pushed against it. Closed!

She began to push against it, wailing for help. Suddenly the door was opened and a stern-faced priest only began to ask what was going on before she pushed him aside and went in, looking for a hide-out.

She ran up to the altar and crawled behind it. She glanced. There was the priest… and there was that man! He no longer had the sword. He was talking to the religious man. She was his sister. Schizophrenia. She was due to have her medication and had escaped.

The priest understood and pointed at where she was. She began to scream in emotional agony. The man approached slowly, talking smoothly, telling her it would be alright. He ducked by her and as he had a very nice smile on his face, produced a small knife and stabbed her in the heart…

--

Diana sipped the dark coffee, hoping it would wake her up. It was almost 11 AM but she had stayed awake till 6 the night before, attentively reading a book on fencing. She was rather much the intellectual, and she pondered how much like now she had been in her previous life, before the amnesia.

But, regardless of whether she had been a library rat or a night slut, she was sure that she had not been what she was now: immortal. She would live forever, never growing old, unless someone chopped her head off her shoulders.

She felt the dim sensation in the back of her head and before she could realise, her mentor was in front of her, holding a small basket with three strange narrow and large things probably made of flour, a cup of coffee, and bearing a good morning smile on her face.

"You look tired." She commented.

"That book you gave me. I liked it, Clarice."

"Really?" Clarice Minon drowned the tip of one of those flour things in the coffee and took a mouthful of it. "I couldn't read past the first thirty pages."

"What's that you're eating?" Diana asked.

"_Croissants_." The reply was sharp and distant.

"You've been to France?"

"Not really…" Clarice seemed reticent to discuss it.

Silence took over the table. Diana tried a _croissant_ and liked it. She glanced at Clarice, who was staring down at her coffee as she nibbled another mouthful. Occassionally, she had these fits. Diana tried not to inquire much. Clarice had taken her in. When she awoke after the church attack, she had been in a hotel room, and she had been by her. She explained that Diana had become immortal and all that immortality brought with it. The Game, its rule and the myths thereof. She felt it would be ungrateful to pry on what might not be of her concern.

"So…" she said to try and to break the mood. "Any plans for today?"

Clarice downed the mouthful of her French snack with a large drink of coffee. "Sightseeing."

Again, the response was brief and cut-off. The rest of breakfast would be drowned in silence.

--

After an uneventful albeit really hot day around Brussels, Diana and Clarice returned to the hotel. The clerk beckoned at them. Diana checked her watch. It was past eight. Both worked in the hotel kitchen, one each night, from eight to six in the morning. The job was in exchange for accommodation and food, Diana was due tonight, and she had arrived late. They approached, the mentor fearing dismissal and subsequent eviction, the apprentice fearing only a reproach. But it was neither.

"I'm very sorry, Mr. Rouge. I promise it won't happen again."

The plump, greyhaired man grinned at her and shook off his head. "Never mind. You've worked very hard so some minutes late won't matter." He paused. "A… gentleman requested you today, _Mademoiselle_ Minon."

"Did he leave any name or a number?" Clarice asked, a tickle of alarm in her voice.

The clerk produced an envelope and handed it to her. "Only this."

"_Merci_." Clarice said as she took the envelope. Diana took off to the kitchen while Clarice went to her room.

She stripped till only her underwear remained, sprawled on the bed to let some of the air conditioner cool off her body and opened the envelope.

There was a card in it, with the address of some bar in it. It was in Paris. But that was not what puzzled her. At the bottom-right of the card, there was a symbol. She heard a knock on the door.

"Yeah?"

"It's me." Diana's voice replied dimly.

"Come in."

Diana walked in. She blushed slightly upon the sight of Clarice in white lingerie, lying in bed so… temptingly. She awkwardly sat down at a chair near the bed and tried not to stare.

"So… " she stammered. "What's in the envelope?"

"An invitation." Clarice replied stiffly.

"You told anyone we were here?"

"I don't need to. They know where we are." Clarice distractedly leant forward to hand the card to Diana, her breasts testing the cotton of her brassier. Diana felt her blood boiling with an odd, sudden desire. She took the card, their fingers touching slightly, her eyes glaring on and off her mentor's bosom.

"What is this… symbol?" she mumbled.

"A group known as the Watchers. They record everything we do."

"I thought you said nobody knew of us."

"They do, and some of us know about them."

"I see." Diana stood up and left the card on the seat. "Are we…?"

Clarice just gazed at her, a sweet look that made the hairs of her body raise in excitement. "Yes." She said.

"OK." Diana stammered quickly. "I'd better… get back to work and… you know and… Good night."

Clarice was left alone soon, slightly amused by her apprentice's uneasy behaviour. She turned out the lights. She needed to think and to that, first she needed to sleep…


	3. Chapter 3

**III - ****Sad News.**

_Paris, France._

_Le Blues Bar._

It was a mostly gloomy place. Beaks of light peered through minor windows. Wooden chairs set over wooden tables was most of what met the eye. There were some unlit neon lights and the walls owned several framed pictures. The place was surely far more interesting at night. At barely midday, it seemed almost abandoned.

There was music on the background, stemming from somewhere. Someone ripping off a guitar magnificently, delivering some magical tunes, and a rough, sad voice singing. Whoever it was, it was really good.

Diana's impressions were magnified by Clarice's attitude. She looked around with disinterest. She sat at the bar, placed the guitar case she carried by her and tapped her fingers impatiently. Diana thought her tapping could almost make some sort of drum beat for the music. But as if her mind had been read, Clarice pounded three times against the bar, each pound harsher.

The music stopped abruptly with a final dissonant chord. And then she heard the same raspy voice calling out.

"I'll be right there!"

The playing man (and barman, Diana felt she could safely assume) appeared from a dark recess. A small, greying man in his early fifties, who walked aided by a cane. He went behind the bar and approached them.

"Hi." He offered his hand to Diana. "I'm Joe Dawson."

Diana grabbed it and said her name. He focused on Clarice. Diana expected the same pleasantries to take place but he only stared at her. Her look, on the other hand, was not a happy one.

"Hi, Clarice."

"Dawson." She said stiffly.

"You look well. Lost some weight?"

"Some." Clarice muttered. "It's bound to happen when you're on the run."

Joe smirked and produced three glasses and a bottle of scotch. He served one, and asked Diana silently. She shook her head. He served another for Clarice. She sighed in haste.

"This is her usual mood lately?" he winked at Diana.

"What do you want, Dawson?" Clarice said, her voice a couple of notches higher. "You know the rules. You mustn't interfere."

"I know." Joe sipped his drink. "But it's my game, not yours."

"You've messed with our game as well." Clarice nearly barked at him.

"It saved your neck…" Joe said, never losing his temper, yet always looking at empty space rather than at her. "Didn't it?"

Clarice didn't reply. She angrily downed her drink. Then she stole Diana's and drank it down.

"You're a Watcher?" Diana asked.

"Yes. I see that Clarice has told you. But it's better that way."

"Better?" Clarice asked acidly.

"So I can speak without holds."

"What happened? What can be so damn important for you to summon me so overtly? Does it have something to do with--?" she stopped and scowled at Joe.

"Have you talked to Marc lately?"

"After _it_ happened and I ran, he faced me in Brisbane. I sent him away. For his own sake."

"Yeah. A fellow Watcher reported seeing the two of you together after you killed his immortal. He was reassigned to an older immortal in Bucarest." Joe poured himself another drink and downed it. "He didn't take it well. Not at all."

"What do you mean?"

"He said it was only a matter of time, nothing without solution. It only took the death of one." Joe's voice edged down slightly. "So he went after _him_… but…"

Diana saw Joe's eyes watering. She glanced at Clarice. Her mentor numbly shook her head and approached one of the tables, where she remained motionless for a few seconds. Then, abruptly, she pushed away one of the chairs, which landed harshly on the floor, and pounded the table in frustration, letting out a heartbreaking shriek as she collapsed against it, kneeling on the floor.

Diana was about to start for her when she felt Joe's hand on her shoulder. She glanced and saw him shaking his head.

"Who… what…?" she stammered. "What's… the big deal you're not telling?"

"Clarice beheaded her first immortal on holy ground." Diana's eyes widened in shock. "She had no clue of the game, or the rules. Well, there were some ancient immortals that enforced that rule. And they hunted her. Her Watcher, Marc, saved her once, but then asked another watcher for help. But this watcher turned out to be an immortal in disguise."

"Huh?"

"Yeah. He had us all believe he was just a historian researching the life of one of the immortals thought to be only a legend: Methos."

The name sounded oddly familiar to Diana. "But he _was_ actually Methos?"

"Yep. To cut it short, Methos and Clarice must stay as far away as possible from each other, for both's sake. Marc… he was in love with Clarice." Joe poured some more scotch and downed it quickly. "She rejected him and Marc thought that if he killed Methos, all would be well. But…"

"Methos killed him instead…" Diana completed the sentence sadly.

Joe just nodded. Clarice was coming back.

"WHERE IS HE?!" she bellowed as he grabbed Joe by the shirt.

"Calm down, Clarice. You shouldn't go after him, he will kill you." Joe tried to cool her off.

"Not if I kill him first!"

Diana gazed in shock at Clarice. Her eyes were red, tears had streaked down her cheeks, leaving the traces on her face. She had never seen her like this. Her shock, as her thoughts did too, went away when she sensed an immortal around.

It was a peculiar premonition. It did not feel like the others did. She could almost say she was familiar with the Quickening of that immortal… whoever it was.

She glanced at Clarice, whose face had mutated from sadness to frustration, and from frustration to a horrid expression of anger. She shifted to Joe, who looked at Clarice as if she were the Grim Reaper.

The door opened, and a tall, slender man in his early thirties appeared. Surprise was in his face, not even more than the one Diana felt when she heard Clarice yell:

"YOU!"


End file.
